by Randy Singer
He studied a head shot of Catherine from a few months ago and compared it to her mug shot, already posted online. In the first picture, Catherine's large hazel eyes sparkled with life. They were playful and alluring, a woman comfortable in her own skin. In the disheveled mug shot there was desperation. She looked beyond the camera with a fearful and haunting stare that made Quinn wonder what was going on inside that pretty head.
Annie's case had been huge. But this one, the Avenger of Blood case, would dwarf it. The Avenger of Blood was a serial killer, not just an abused wife who struck back.
He took one more look at the earlier photo and then the mug shot. Interesting. It almost seemed like he was looking at two different women.
36
Catherine was already distraught, but her nerves frayed even further that first evening in jail. Friends tried to lift her spirits during visiting hours, but afterward the guards put her back in the same overcrowded pod. In the center of the pod was a two-story common area with a few bolted-down metal tables and picnic bench chairs. A total of fourteen cells lined the walls of the pod on two opposite sides and opened into the common area at all hours except during lockdown. A third wall contained open shower stalls. The fourth wall, the one opposite the shower stalls, was taken up by the thick bulletproof glass protecting the guard station where the deputies could watch every move of the inmates and lock every cell door or even spray the inmates down by remote control.
Inmates had a choice of hanging out in their own cells or going into the common area. But even if they stayed in their cells, the cell doors would be open except during lockdown, and there would be no escaping the taunting of other inmates. For Cat, the barbs during the first day had been nonstop.
Holly and several other inmates who had been in jail during Cat's first stay continued mockingly referring to her as "Barbie." Holly's first nickname for Catherine, which also started with a B, got nixed by the short-tempered Tasha.
"Call her that one more time, and I'll drive my foot all the way up to your backbone," Tasha threatened.
From then on, it was Barbie.
Cat hadn't realized how fortunate she had been during her first brief stay in the jail. Isolation had meant having her own private cell and at least a semiprivate toilet. But this time, there was no privacy. The "showers" were nothing more than three nozzles attached to the wall at the end of the pod opposite the guard station. The guards and everyone else in the pod could watch. The toilets weren't much better. Every cell had a stainless steel toilet and a stainless steel rinse basin attached to the wall, open for all to see. When Holly used the toilet after lockdown at 11:00 p.m. and Cat glanced around the cell, Holly jumped on her.
"What are you starin' at, Barbie?"
"I'm not staring at anything. Certainly not you," Cat responded, tired of her cellmate's nonsense.
"I'll stuff your head in this bowl when I'm done," Holly threatened.
Holly finished and walked slowly toward Cat's mattress. Tasha sat up on her bed and stared, though she didn't say a word. Cat tensed, ready to fight if necessary. Holly towered over her for a minute, laughed, then turned and went back to her own bed.
When Cat used the toilet a few minutes later, Holly stared at her the entire time. "How do you like it, Barbie? How do you like it?"
"Leave her alone," Tasha grunted.
Cat stayed awake the entire first night, wary of even the slightest movement from the bunks. She had already decided she would not submit quietly. If one of the others attacked her, Cat would punch, kick, and claw, screaming the entire time. Jail required a new level of toughness; only the strongest survived.
Cat was a survivor. She would forge alliances and fight to defend herself. Though the guards prohibited gangs, after just one day in the pod Cat sensed the existence of gang loyalty among certain women.
It was probably just a matter of time before Holly found an opportune time to make a move. If and when it happened, Cat would hold nothing back. Her reputation and survival, she knew, would depend on the results of that first fight.
Exhausted, Cat stared at the ceiling, counting the minutes until dawn.
* * *
At 8:30 a.m., the deputies placed handcuffs on Cat and walked her through several thick metal doors and down a long tunnel to the circuit court building. Once there, she was jammed in a small cinder block holding cell with about ten other inmates, all clad in orange jumpsuits and shackled at the wrists and ankles. Eventually a deputy led her into a conference room where Marc Boland was waiting. The deputy stood just outside the door.
"Normally attorneys have to stand in that small chamber just outside the holding cell and talk to their clients through the slit in the door," Bo explained. "Because of the confidential nature of what I'm going to tell you, the judge has allowed us to use this conference room just this once."
"Thanks," Cat said. She had a hard time imagining talking to her lawyer in a holding cell, surrounded by ten other inmates.
"Are you doing okay?" Bo asked.
"You've got to get me out of here," Cat said, her resolve from the night before melting away in the face of exhaustion and uncertainty. "Can't you get me bailed out?" She could hear a certain desperation in her voice, but she didn't really care. She had to get out of this place.
"This morning's hearing is an arraignment, not a bond hearing. We'll plead not guilty, and I'll make my first appearance as counsel of record. That's all we're doing today."
"How long before a bond hearing?" Cat asked.
"Actually, I'm not even sure we should ask for bail," Bo said.
Cat gave him an incredulous look. No bail?
"Number one, I don't think there's any chance the judge would give it to you. And second, I don't think this Avenger of Blood character can control himself. If he strikes again while you're in here, you'll walk free the very next day."
She knew it was an overstatement, but Cat appreciated Bo's attempt to calm her. She shifted in her chair. "We need to at least try," she countered. "If we get it, I'll stay within sight of somebody 24-7. I'll have a total alibi at all times."
Bo didn't look like he was buying it.
"I can't survive in here, Bo."
"Catherine," Bo said calmly, as if attempting to transfer some of his resolve to her, "you can make it. You will make it. Every client tells me the same thing the first time we meet. As strong-willed as you are, you'll be running the joint before long. We're going to clear your name, Cat, but it's going to take some time."
We don't have time! she wanted to scream. But she didn't. Bo's on my side, she reminded herself. Looking out for my best interest. Her part was to be strong.
"Okay," she said, though she heard the uncertainty in her own tone.
Bo nodded. "You need to be aware, Catherine, that the commonwealth claims it has some additional evidence."
"Like what?"
"They obtained an emergency subpoena for your bank records first thing this morning. There's a five-thousand-dollar deposit from American Finance, one of those loan application deals triggered when you deposit the check. It was put into your account last Thursday. In your house, they found the tear-off page for another application for an unsecured credit card loan, this one for ten thousand. They'll be monitoring your mail for the approval on that loan from Bank of America."
"What does that prove?" Cat asked.
"Apparently somebody sent Rex Archibald a ten-thousand-dollar retainer in money orders. They're trying to prove that you had access to that kind of money."
For Cat, it was like they were talking about a different person. She received credit card and loan offers all the time. She never, ever, filled any of them out, much less deposited them. "So now they're trying to pin the murder of Rex Archibald on me too? I didn't make that deposit, Bo. I didn't apply for any quick loans."
Bo paused before responding, his facial expression unchanging. "A handwriting expert says the signature on the back of the check and the handwriting on the deposit stub are you
rs. There's also something else." Bo watched her, apparently gauging her reaction. "Boyd Gates says they're running DNA tests on some bloody paper towels they found in a white plastic bag in your neighbor's trash container. The same bag contained a small vial of methohexital, the drug used to sedate Marcia Carver and Sherita Johnson. Is there anything you're not telling me?"
"I didn't murder anyone. I didn't kidnap any babies. Why would I do such a thing?"
"I'm not suggesting you did, Cat." Bo kept it low-key, a consummate professional. "But somebody is doing one heck of a job setting you up."
"Why would I dump those things in my neighbor's trash? Who would be that stupid?"
A deputy stuck his head in the door. "Your case is up next," he said to Bo.
"Can you drop it down?" Bo asked.
"No, sir," said the deputy. "Judge Rosencrance wants to make sure this one starts on time. There's a lot of media attention out there."
"Give us a minute," Bo said.
When the deputy left, Bo stood. "We've got to talk about adding another lawyer. On a capital case, you need two lawyers. I only handle the guilt phase. Every capital defendant needs someone who specializes in the penalty phase. We can talk about it after the arraignment."
Penalty phase. Capital defendants. The words were clinical enough, but Cat knew what they meant. She felt nauseous as the reality of it all sunk in, piece by awful piece. In a few minutes, she would be accused of first-degree murder. The commonwealth would be seeking the death penalty.
Bo closed his briefcase. "I've given one of the female deputies the clothes we had your friend pick up, along with a hairbrush and some rubber bands so you can pull your hair into a ponytail. She'll unlock your handcuffs so you can get changed."
"Okay," Cat mumbled, distracted by the challenges looming before her. She felt like she had stumbled into her own worst nightmare--a maze of injustice and false accusations. How could it get any worse?
* * *
Cat stepped into court feeling embarrassed and more than a little ugly. The night before, the deputies had released her duplex keys to Bo, who in turn had asked one of Cat's friends to pick out a respectable outfit for court. Cat wore a nice pair of slacks and a modest white cotton blouse. She had pulled her hair into a tight ponytail but wore no makeup. She knew her eyes were as bloodshot as a drug addict's.
She kept her head down and shuffled along, flanked by deputies. She sat next to Bo, mindful that the cameras recorded every movement. She couldn't bring herself to turn and look at the packed gallery. She knew her friends and coworkers would be there, as well as her editors. She had talked to her mother and sister on the phone last night, and they had planned to drive in from central Pennsylvania. Cat wondered how many people in the courtroom had already judged her.
The judge read the charges against Catherine--first-degree murder--and Bo confidently entered a plea of "absolutely not guilty." The lawyers settled on a date for a preliminary hearing, and, almost before it started, the proceeding was over.
Bo talked the guard into giving him a few more minutes with Catherine in the conference room before she headed back to jail.
"This will be the last time," the guard warned.
When they were alone, Catherine didn't wait for Bo to set the agenda. She was still unsure of herself, but she tried to sound decisive. "I want to bring Quinn Newberg on as co-counsel," she said. "He's competent, aggressive, and adamantly opposed to the death penalty."
Bo thought about it for a moment, his face registering concern. "I don't know. . . . He specializes in insanity. People will automatically assume you committed the crime and will be pleading insanity. Plus, he's not local. He doesn't know our courts."
Catherine trusted Bo. But it was her life on the line. For some reason, this felt right.
"You know the local courts, Bo. I need someone who hates the death penalty." She placed a hand on Bo's forearm. "Will you call him for me? Please? I think it would have more impact coming from you."
Bo hesitated again; clearly he didn't like this idea. "Quinn Newberg is a good attorney. But he's also going to be very expensive."
Cat gave Bo a pained expression. She hadn't really thought about costs. With her family's help, she thought she could scrape enough together for Bo's retainer. But she could never afford two lawyers.
"Vegas attorneys like Quinn charge a minimum of four hundred an hour," Bo said. "He'll charge for travel time back and forth, the time it takes him to get up to speed on Virginia procedure . . . everything. His retainer alone could be twenty-five, thirty thousand."
"It's a high-publicity case," Cat countered. "Won't he do it for a big discount? Maybe even for free?"
Bo gave her a sympathetic smile, the kind he probably reserved for clients with dumb questions. "Lawyers like Newberg don't discount their rates. The man's got enough publicity; he works for cash."
Cat felt desperation welling up in her again. The more she thought about this, the more she knew she needed Quinn for the capital phase. "Please? At least call?"
"I'll call him," Bo said, though his tone said it would be a waste of time.
"Thanks," Cat said. She steeled herself to return to jail.
37
"Line one," Melanie called out.
"Take a message," Quinn yelled back from his office.
"You'll want to take this one," Melanie said.
Quinn grunted and picked up the phone. "Quinn Newberg."
"Quinn, it's Marc Boland from Virginia Beach."
Boland explained that he represented Catherine O'Rourke, a reporter accused of being the Avenger of Blood. He said they needed "death counsel" on the case and that Catherine had suggested Quinn.
"I'm flattered," said Quinn. He thought he detected something less than enthusiasm in Boland's voice, and Quinn didn't blame him. The last thing Quinn ever wanted on a big case was another high-powered defense lawyer acting as co-counsel, second-guessing Quinn's every move. "Are you going to plead insanity?"
"We haven't decided yet," Boland responded, "but I doubt it. We'd really just be looking for you to handle the sentencing phase . . . if you're interested."
It didn't take a genius to pick up on that hint. "How do you feel about having me involved?"
When Boland paused, Quinn had his answer.
"I think you're a heckuva lawyer," Boland said eventually. "It's just that when you get involved, the public will automatically assume Catherine killed this guy and that she's lining up an insanity plea. I think she's innocent, Quinn, and I don't want to send conflicting messages."
Is that what it's come to? Anybody who hires me will automatically be assumed either guilty or insane? "I hear what you're saying, Marc, but I don't think my involvement leads to that conclusion. I've actually represented one or two sane people in my day. Why don't you tell me about the evidence?"
It took about twenty minutes for Quinn to conclude that his view of the strength of the commonwealth's case was far different from Boland's. The commonwealth had DNA evidence. They had a vial of methohexital in the neighbor's trash. They had O'Rourke's "visions." Eventually they would figure out the motive--according to Boland, O'Rourke had been raped in college, and the Avenger's victims were rapists and attorneys who represented rapists. O'Rourke had no alibi.
The visions bothered Quinn most of all. Boland said the jury would just conclude that his client had some kind of sixth sense. "If police rely on mediums to help solve cases, we can certainly argue that supernatural powers really exist. At first, even the criminal profilers thought maybe Catherine could help them solve the case, not be their number one suspect."
Quinn didn't want to argue the point now, but he was definitely part of the skeptic camp on this. In his view, "supernatural" phenomena always had natural causes. Cases were won on evidence and logic, not hunches that came from communications with another world. O'Rourke's visions, to Quinn's way of thinking, were powerful evidence that Catherine O'Rourke was insane. It seemed like a case of dissociative identity dis
order, the hardest kind of case for any defense lawyer to win.
Yet something about this case was drawing Quinn. Maybe it was the magnet of national media coverage. Maybe it was seeing Catherine O'Rourke on television, an attractive woman at the mercy of the system. Maybe it was the challenge of a tough case or the fact that Quinn now saw high-profile insanity cases as his birthright. What lawyer knew the complexities of the human mind like Quinn did? Certainly not Marc Boland.
And besides, Annie's case would plead out in a couple of days. Quinn would have the time.
But he didn't really trust Marc Boland to deliver the right message to the client. Quinn didn't want to get involved just to carry Boland's briefcase. If he was going to be an equal partner, Quinn would need his own relationship with the client.
"I'd like to talk to Ms. O'Rourke," Quinn said. "Maybe I could help."
"I'll let her know," Boland responded, sounding skeptical. "But I also need to let her know your rates and retainer. She's a reporter. As you can imagine, funds are pretty tight."
Quinn wanted to ask Boland how much he was making per hour. But why get off on the wrong foot with a man who might end up being your co-counsel?
"That's okay," Quinn said. "I'll give her a call and see if we can work something out."
"Catherine prefers that you work through me," Boland said.
"She can tell me that when I call her," Quinn said. "And then I'll be glad to abide by her wishes."
38
Cat cried when she saw her mom and younger sister crammed into the small visitor kiosk. Even though Cat could only "meet" with them via closed-circuit TV from the visitors' station, just knowing they were in the same building gave her comfort.
"I took out a line of credit on the house," her mom said. "I'll give thirty thousand to Mr. Boland as a retainer."
"Mom, I don't want you to do that." But Cat knew there was no other choice. She had about fifteen thousand in savings. Her sister, Kelsey, had even less.
